Killing Joe

Chapter 10

Frank Hardy stood on the bridge deck and stared down at the swirling river. The rain pounded down on him but he was mindless to it. His heart was heavy as a numbness slowly settled over him – this couldn't be it. His brother could not be dead.

Was it really only twelve hours ago that he and Joe had stood on this very bridge, joking and roughhousing as they waited for old Walter Miller to make his morning appearance?

Flexing his still sore hand, the dark haired teen involuntarily flinched as once again the memory of the fight and his brother's subsequent flight over the railing assaulted him. He shivered but not from the cold – was that to be the last memories of Joe he would ever have?

"Frank?" The sound of his father's voice broke into his anguished musing, and the teen turned to look at him, sucking in a breath at the exhausted and pale face that confronted him; hardly the same self-assured, poised, confident man that the boy knew. "You okay?"

"I – I don't know," Frank admitted, "I feel kinda – well, sorta numb, I guess." He brushed the wet hair off his face, vaguely thinking he should go and wait in the truck. There wasn't anything he could do here right now. By the time he, his father and Deputy Hilroy arrived at Sheila Bridge, Sheriff Oakes, his deputy and a group of volunteers were already on the scene and had the submerged truck almost winched out of the river.

Frank's heart had started to pound as soon as he saw it, recognizing the rental he and Joe had gotten only two days ago. Sheriff Oakes had come up to him and Fenton right away and told them there was no sign of Joe or the girls.

Although to be honest, he had admitted, he didn't think there were any girls involved, and that Cletus and Norton had just made up the whole thing to cover the murder and dumping the body.

The corrupt lawman had just shaken his head and looked at Fenton. "Killing Joe is a rather popular sport today, ain't it? What's this? His third death in one day – kid's set a bloody record!" He had then grinned and walked away from the stunned Hardys.

When the shock wore off, an incensed Frank had started to go after the insensitive sheriff, but his father held him back. They didn't have time for this right now.

And Frank had been standing on the bridge and watching in silence ever since.

"I know son, it's the shock," Fenton sighed, his own dark hair plastered unflatteringly to his forehead. Like Frank, his clothes were soaked but he was oblivious to the discomfort.

"Do you—" the teen turned to look at his father, not sure he wanted to know the answer but asking the question anyway, "Do you think there really were any girls?"

Fenton looked at his exhausted – emotionally and physically – son, and heard the unasked question – do you think my brother is still alive? – and he faltered, torn between head and heart.

"I – I want to believe…" the detective stumbled over his words as his dark brown eyes turned to the empty husk of a truck being jacked up on the back of a tow truck now, "I really do..."

Frank reached out and put a hand on his father's shoulder. Fenton sighed and looked at his son as he placed his own cold hand overtop of Frank's. "But it doesn't look very good."

"No, it doesn't," the teen agreed, his voice grave and grief-filled, but before either could say anything else Deputy Hilroy approached them.

"They're going to tow the truck into town," he told them, wiping the rain off his face with his hand. "You two might as well follow it. Get a room for the night – we can start again in the morning. The storm should have passed on by then…either way, we'll have better light."

"What?" Frank's voice was incredulous and the deputy held up his hand to stay any further argument.

"Look, I know you want to find your brother, but we can't do anything else tonight. With the Sheila rising faster than a drunk at a fermented bobbing for apples contest, it's too risky to continue searching right now." He looked at the two men and sighed. "We can get a start at first light. Get something to eat and try to sleep – collapsing from sheer exhaustion isn't going to help Joe one way or the other."

Fenton looked at his son and slowly nodded his head. He might not like it but the deputy was right.

"Come on, Frank," he said, gently guiding the teen away from the broken bridge railing. Frank resisted for a moment but then gave in, casting one more longing look towards the horrid river before silently getting into the truck.

"We get started first thing," he said to his father.

"First thing," Fenton agreed as he started the truck.

With the windshield wipers on maximum, the Bayport investigator slowly pulled away from Sheila Bridge and headed back towards the town. He and Frank could stay in the motel room that the boys had occupied the night before.

ooooooOOOOOOoooooo

April-May quickly unlocked the motel room and held the door open as Duane and Clint carefully maneuvered an unconscious Joe into the room.

"Grab the towels from the bathroom," Clint instructed, "lay them on the floor. We need to get this kid out of these wet clothes – he'll catch his death of cold like this!"

Betty-Ann laid two large white towels on the floor and watched as the men lowered the teenager down onto them. She shivered beneath Clint's jacket as she glanced at her friend anxiously. Similarly ensconced in Duane's jacket, April-May shared an equally worried glance.

"You girls go take a bath or something to get warmed up. I got us two rooms so you can each pick a bathroom. The old fella at the front desk said there's robes hanging on a hook on the back of the doors. We'll get this kid settled away while you're gone," Duane told them, already tossing the second key to the red-head. They waited until the girls were gone before they finished disrobing Joe and got him settled into one of the two beds in the small motel room; an unasked question hung over them at the sight of Joe's bare feet.

Shaking his head at the sound of April-May's out-of-tune voice as she sang in the shower, Clint appraised the unconscious stranger. "Looks like he's had a rough time of it," he commented, noting the abrasions on Joe's wrists, the bruise on his jaw, and the busted lip.

"Seems so," Duane agreed; he frowned as he sized up the pale face. "He don't look much older than seventeen or eighteen, though – he's just a kid." His gaze flickered towards the closed bathroom door. "You don't suppose…"

"I don't suppose…we'll know anything until the girls tell us something," Clint finished for him, not ready to make any speculations. "Until then I'm going to run to that little diner across the road, see if I can get some soup. We can try to get something into the kid too – it'll help warm him up."

"I wouldn't mind a sandwich and bowl of soup myself," Duane commented, as he grimaced and looked down at his soaked pants, "and grab my duffle bag out of the car on your way back, will you? I need some new pants. That coldness is a-creeping up in areas I don't want it a-creeping!"

"Gotcha," Clint laughed, already halfway to the door, "pants and food. I can do that." He threw a smirking smile at the bathroom door, "You think you can handle her if she comes out before I get back?"

"Yeah," Duane grinned at his friend, "after all, she ain't got no gun this time!"

Joe heard unfamiliar voices talking and tried to force open his eyes. But as the growing warmth and comfort of the bed enticed him to sleep, he gave up trying….

Duane sat beside the slumbering kid and frowned. Who was he, what was he doing with the girls and what the hell was going on?

'Geez,' he thought to himself as he reached out and touched the kid's forehead to make sure he wasn't running a fever or anything. He wasn't. His skin was still a bit cool to the touch, but definitely warmer than it had been, 'all I did was ask April-May to marry me!'

Getting up when he heard Clint at the door, Duane wondered vaguely if his girlfriend was ever planning on coming out of the bathroom again!

ooooooOOOOOOoooooo

"What room is it?" Fenton asked as he parked the SUV in front of the motel.

Frank sighed heavily, "11A – there, third from the end." He actually dreaded going back to the room. Joe's overnight bag was still there – along with his own. He swallowed back the painful lump in his throat as he slowly got out of the truck and followed his father towards the motel room. 'Hang on, little brother,' he thought, 'whereever you are, just hang on a bit longer – we'll find you tomorrow. I promise.'

A dark haired stranger in a cowboy hat was laden down with bags of take-out food and struggling with an overnight bag as the rain drenched him mercilessly.

"Let me give you a hand," the teen offered, reaching to take one of the bags even as he passed his father the key to his and Joe's room so Fenton could unlock their door.

"Thank you." The man flashed him an easy smile and then knocked on the door with his foot. An instant later a second man, another cowboy, the teen guessed, opened the door and added his own 'thank you' as Frank passed him the bag he had been holding.

Turning away to follow his father into 11A, the teen was suddenly overcome with the strangest of feelings. He looked back towards the cowboys' room but saw the door to room 11B was now closed.

"You coming, Frank?" Fenton called out from inside the room.

"Yeah," the teen said, shaking off the feeling. It had been so weird. But for one crazy moment, Frank had had the strongest impulse to just go barreling into their room!

'I must be more tired than I thought, 'he finally decided and quickly went back into his own room.